Embroidering Shrouds

by Priscilla Masters

  Real fear flickered through Grinstead’s eyes. ‘Put it like this,’ he said, ‘word is he wasn’t long out of one of your special invitations.’

  Joanna and Mike exchanged glances. Elland.

  ‘And the one in August? The one that had three hundred quid nicked?’

  Grinstead’s eyes blanked out. ‘Don’t know nothin’ about that. Press bits about the other job put the youngsters off, that and the crash. Two of the lads was hurt, legs broke, frightened them so they stopped.’

  Joanna was tempted to smile. So nature and the results of their crimes had punished them and taught them a lesson far more severe, more lasting and more effective than any the courts would have meted out.

  Providence one could call it, certainly justice had been done. She moved closer to Grinstead. ‘What about the old lady who had her face cut, Melvin?’

  He was paralysed. ‘I don’t know nothing about that, Inspector. Honest.’

  She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Sure?’

  ‘I swear ...’

  ‘Don’t use your mother’s life, Melvin,’ she said softly. ‘I have the feeling she might not like it.’

  Grinstead put his glass down on the counter and walked out of the pub as straight and as dignified as he could manage.

  ‘So he was worth a little,’ Joanna conceded the point to Korpanski. ‘You were right. Again.’

  ‘He’s a harmless enough old devil.’

  ‘Who’ll wander under a bus one of these days, drunk.’

  Korpanski gave an uneasy grimace. ‘Got second sight, have you?’

  ‘It’ll happen,’ she said, looking back at the frosted door still swinging. ‘It’s the way with these old geezers. They drink. They gabble. They stumble on crimes that are far too big for their tiny brains, and they’re so easy to dispose of.’

  ‘It’s time you went home to your poisonous little step-daughter.’

  ‘And time you went home to your pet dragon.’

  Mike made a face. ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘The usual. Briefings, checking statements, reading reports and other such vital work.’

  ‘Sunday the same?’

  ‘No. Sunday I think I shall go to church.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were the religious type.’

  ‘I am and I’m not,’ Joanna said enigmatically. ‘But it was a week ago Sunday that Nan was last seen walking the bare half-mile from the church to her home. I shall retrace her footsteps and see if I can jog anyone’s memory. Besides, the Reverend wanted to talk to me and it’ll get me out of the house. I don’t think I can face meeting Eloise’s face every time I look up from the Sunday Times. We’re meeting Caro and Tom for lunch so the rest of the day shouldn’t be too bad and half-term’s only a week long, surely the little blighter has to go back to whatever institution is making an effort to educate her. What about you?’

  ‘I thought I’d hang around Brushton Grange for a couple of hours, see what sort of company Christian Patterson’s keeping these days, never know what might turn up.’

  ‘Fine. Ring if anything crops up.’

  They parted company.

  The journey home seemed too short, Waterfall Village a mere couple of minutes away when usually she was impatient to get home and it seemed to take too long. But today Joanna was not anxious to arrive home at all.

  She let herself in and stood in the hall for a second – no longer. The first thing she heard was Eloise laughing. ‘Oh, Daddy.’

  It set Joanna’s teeth on edge. For a couple of pins she would not have entered the sitting room but sneaked straight upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom. But that would be silly, antisocial and admitting defeat. Instead she walked in and greeted Matthew’s daughter casually. ‘Hello, Eloise.’

  The girl was thirteen years old, a clone of her mother. Slim, with sleek blonde hair a few shades lighter than her father’s but the exact same colour as her mother’s, and sharp, angular features. In the uniform of the teenager, orange crop-top sweater, bootleg trousers, black clompy boots, she was draped across the sofa, opposite Matthew, laughing. So was he. Both stopped when she walked in.

  Eloise didn’t even try to smile and her greeting was a sulky, ‘Hello, Joanna.’

  Matthew made an effort. He stood up and planted a clumsy kiss on her cheek. ‘Hi, darling. Busy day?’ And not for the first time Joanna realized with an ache how difficult it all was for him. So she smiled back, returned his kiss and flopped into the spare armchair.

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

  ‘I thought we were going out.’

  Matthew’s eyes flicked anxiously from one to the other. ‘Hang on a minute, darling. Joanna’s just got in.’

  ‘But I’m starving.’

  ‘We could order a takeaway from the Indian, Matt.’

  ‘A curry?’ Eloise said, as though she’d suggested they eat rhinoceros droppings.

  Of course, Miss Eloise would not like a curry, not if Joanna had suggested it.

  She tried again. ‘Then what about a Chinese? There’s a good one in Leek and they deliver.’

  ‘OK, then.’

  Joanna fished a couple of menus from the drawer and they all made a great show of studying the menu with absorbed concentration. Joanna drank her coffee and escaped to the bathroom. At least in there she would not be disturbed.

  By the time the food arrived she too was hungry, then there was a good film to watch. She made the excuse of tiredness and escaped to bed. Six more nights.

  Chapter Seventeen

  8.15 a.m. Saturday, October 31st

  Eloise was a child who slept late. Joanna was up, breakfasted and away without hearing a stir from the bedroom. She had taken a coffee up to Matthew just before she left, brushed the hair out of his eyes and read all the guilt, pain and depression at the clash between his daughter and his mistress. She kissed him with pity and he pulled her towards him. ‘I believe you do try,’ he said, ‘but you just don’t like her, do you?’

  ‘She doesn’t like me, Matthew.’

  He stroked her hair and closed his eyes. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it. The fact that the two people I love most in life can hardly bear to be in the same room as each other.’

  She lay with her cheek pressed against his chest. ‘You might try to point out that however nasty, rude or offhand she is to me it won’t make any difference. She won’t part us, Matthew, you won’t go back to Jane, we’ll still be together. That’s why she does it, Matt. She thinks if we fall out you’ll go back to her mother.’

  He kissed her hair. ‘My little psychologist.’

  ‘I think ...’ she began. ‘I think that if you tried to persuade her just to be civil, it might help. Like and certainly love is asking too much. Here,’ she fished Lydia Patterson’s book out from under the bed, ‘give her this. Nan Lawrence’s sister writes kids’ books, she gave me one. Oh, it’s all right.’ Matthew’s sharp eyes had picked up the cartoon hen on the cover. ‘I know it’s far too young for her.’ Joanna flicked through the pages as she had done last night until she had dropped asleep and again she was struck by how unlike a children’s story it really was. More an adult tale using animals as characters. Like some of the great children’s classics, Watership Down or Animal Farm, it had a message and a moral.

  Matthew held the book for a moment then gave Joanna a sudden kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks,’ he said with one of his broad grins. ‘We both know it won’t work but thanks for trying, Jo. I appreciate it.’

  She felt warm, virtuous and happy.

  ‘And as a reward’, he continued, ‘you should find my official report of Nan Lawrence’s PM on your desk this very morning.’

  She kissed him and left.

  For the first time in years Lydia had put away her exercise book in the top drawer, cleared the top of the desk completely and tipped every single photograph out of the antimony box. She was lining them up, muttering private thoughts, thoughts she would not have spoken aloud if there had been the remotest chance anyon
e would hear. Sam ‘n’ Ella clucked softly in the corner.

  She laid the pictures out in sequence, one child joined by a sister, and then a second sister, the three children growing up, Nan’s engagement, Arnie in uniform, a wedding day. And then the pictures stopped.

  Lydia picked up the last of the photographs. ‘So,’ she said, ‘the time has come, it’ll soon be too late. We’re old now. Nan is dead, and Arnie …’

  Gazing through the window at the dull day outside, she began, at last, to face up to her sister’s murder.

  Matthew was as good as his word. The report, neatly typed, was waiting for her when she arrived. It made ugly reading, every single blow neatly documented, Nan Lawrence’s body subjected to the most intense scrutiny, medical facts baldly scripted. Joanna scanned through it, as always impressed by Matthew’s thoroughness, if not able to understand every single word. On impulse she picked up the phone. ‘I wish you wouldn’t use such long medical terms,’ she grumbled. ‘I only understand half of it.’

  ‘I only resort to medical terminology’, he said, ‘when layman’s terms fail to describe her condition accurately. What particular words are you having a problem with?’

  ‘Well, I can cope with contusion,’ she said. ‘But haematoma? Frenulum? Pinna? Gravid? I need a dictionary.’

  Matthew chuckled. ‘The pinna is a part of the ear,’ he said, ‘the outer bit. The frenulum is the flap of skin that ties the tongue to the floor of the mouth. Gravid is a term connected with pregnancy and haematoma is a collection of clotted blood. How are you doing?’

  ‘Scribbling like mad,’ she said. ‘I shall have to attend some of these lectures you’re always giving.’

  ‘Do,’ he said. ‘You’ll be more interested than half the police surgeons who turn up.’

  ‘So what have you two got planned for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Not sure,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’ve got the awful feeling she wants to take me shopping.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something. What time do you think you’ll be back?’

  ‘Late. Eight – nine, maybe even later. You know what it’s like during a murder investigation, all fun and families cancelled.’

  ‘Right.’ A pause. ‘See you when I see you.’

  They both hung up.

  Korpanski turned up at lunchtime armed with a bag full of sandwiches, some cake, drinks and fruit. ‘Thought you might want feeding,’ he said, dropping them on to her desk.’

  ‘I do. I do,’ she said, leaning back in her chair and opening one of the packs. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Christian didn’t get up to much this morning,’ he said. ‘Tried to gain access to his great-aunt’s house.’

  ‘Checking up on his inheritance?’

  ‘That or destroying evidence.’

  Joanna picked up a second report on her desk. ‘I don’t think so, Barra’s picked the place clean. Look at this.’

  Mike scanned the note with a dour smile on his face. ‘He’s a clever sod,’ he said. ‘Put the bloody thing through the dishwasher after taking it to pieces. No wonder they didn’t find anything.’

  ‘Then get me the make of dishwasher used, mine leaves loads of debris.’

  Mike flipped the papers on to the desk. ‘It’s an admission of guilt,’ he said disgustedly. ‘I mean, how many people with nothing to hide would put a Stanley knife through a dishwasher after taking it to bits?’

  ‘Patterson’s defence will think of a perfectly good excuse. And they’ll have months to do it by the time it gets to Crown Court.’

  ‘Do you ever think the law is tipped on the side of the criminal?’

  ‘Never.’ Joanna made a face.

  ‘You seem on a high,’ Mike commented, ‘considering you’ve –’

  The white witch staying with me? Oh, Matthew and I had a little talk about her this morning. I feel better for airing my grievances.’

  ‘Well, I wish I did,’ Mike rejoined grumpily. ‘Although she is taking the kids to the Halloween firework show tonight. Fran and I are having a meal out.’ His dark eyes twinkled. ‘Or we may not go out at all.’

  ‘Then take tomorrow morning off, you’ll get your overtime in next week. I’m going up to the church anyway, unless you want to come?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Strictly a weddings, christenings and funerals man myself.’

  They worked steadily through the day and most of the evening too, packing up at nine. Joanna let herself into an empty house and picked up a note from the kitchen table. ‘Gone to the New Vic. to see Cabaret. Trick or Treat. Matthew XXX.’

  Joanna picked up one of his forensic textbooks and began to read.

  Chapter Eighteen

  10 a.m. Sunday, November 1st

  Rudyard church was a traditional, stone-walled edifice, built centuries ago and approached by a single-track lane. The rain had started up again, heavy and drenching, pouring from skies so dark with cloud Joanna began to wonder whether the sun really was behind it. Like the rest of the congregation she was forced to run from the car park to the porch, where the Reverend Leon Gardiner stood, greeting his flock. He was an extraordinary-looking man. Very tall and powerfully built with a shock of thick, tawny hair. It was difficult to guess his age, certainly over sixty. Possibly even upwards of seventy. He crossed towards her and held out his hand. ‘Hello.’ She introduced herself and was subjected to a piercing stare from very calm grey eyes. ‘You’re not at all what I expected, Inspector.’

  ‘No.’ She had thought she was used to this reaction but it still stung. ‘I believe you wanted to talk to me, Reverend Gardiner?’

  He shot a swift look around. The organ was already playing very softly.

  ‘Maybe after the service?’

  ‘Yes.’ His relief was obvious as he pumped her hand. ‘Yes, of course. That would be most convenient. You may be interested in my sermon, Inspector, about neighbourliness.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’

  She sat near the back of an ageing congregation and was surprised to see how many she recognized. Cecily Marlowe was two rows in front, Florence Price, in shiny pink straw hat to the side. As the organ started playing Emily Whittaker clattered awkwardly up the aisle, her two sticks tapping on the stone floor like the blind beggar of Treasure Island, rain dripping from her pacamac. She sat down with an audible groan which translated to a ripple of sympathy around the pews. The Reverend Leon Gardiner climbed the step to the pulpit. The slow ritual of an English Sunday service began to the breathy tones of a pedal organ. Handel. Joanna closed her eyes and dreamed of far-off days when her grandmother had insisted she attend church. And she had, glad of the peace and tranquillity, away from the warring factions of her parents which her grandmother’s sharp eyes and ears had picked up. With hindsight Joanna knew the real reason her grandmother had insisted she attend church had had nothing to do with her immortal soul; she was simply trying to prevent further damage to a sensitive child, caused by insensitive parents. Occasionally, in quieter moments, Joanna allowed herself the luxury of pondering incidents that trickled through her childhood and spilled into the adult woman she was. Understandable that after such turbulence, ending only with the abandonment of her mother for a woman much younger than herself, Joanna was reluctant to tie the conjugal knot. For her mother her husband’s departure had been the ultimate insult. So the years of bitterness and acrimony ended in yet more poison, poison not even neutralized by her father’s death. Still, every time her father’s name was mentioned the muscles in her body would tense up involuntarily. And coming here today almost convinced her that she would walk away from the church, her hand holding her grandmother’s tightly. They would return to the pink-washed cottage, open the door. And the peace of the service would be shattered.

  Joanna frowned. Strange that she didn’t remember Sarah being there, but then Sarah had been older, disdainful of her younger sister. They had never discussed their parents; they had never discussed anything. And the
only way she had been able to attract her father’s attention had been to be the daredevil – the chancer – the son he had never had. So she had ridden her bike the fastest, dived from the highest board in the swimming pool and sailed on the stormiest of seas. Her father had still gone.

  She opened her eyes to see light pouring in through the stained-glass window. The sun had been lying in wait behind the clouds. It had taken a giant breath to clear them. The window reminded her of the picture on Nan Lawrence’s tapestry. The subjects couldn’t have been more different; this was Virgin with child, not Slaughter of the Innocent. Joanna sat very still, her mind struggling with a new concept she could not quite understand, not fully.

  Joanna opened her eyes. The prayers were over and she hadn’t listened; they would have been for the dead. Nan. She should have listened. She glanced round the rest of the congregation and wondered, how many of them were absorbed in their own thoughts instead of concentrating on the Reverend’s words? Or were the soothing words of the matins facilitators for clear and empty minds? She glanced along the row. Marion and Ralph Elland were staring at her curiously, they must be wondering why she was here. She flushed and forced her mind to listen.

  Standing high in the pulpit in his flowing white surplice the Reverend looked larger than life. Powerful, strong. Omnipotent. Omniscient. She could almost convince herself he could be omnipresent too. She recalled that the vicar in her grandmother’s church had looked much like this when she had been a child, something different from an ordinary mortal. She couldn’t believe it the first time she had seen him in normal clothes, strolling down the High Street of the small Shropshire town where her grandmother had lived. He had looked so disappointing. So which, she had reasoned later, with a child’s confused logic, was the real person? The larger than life Reverend or the humble, mousey man who had held his shopping in a brown carrier bag?

  But somehow she couldn’t imagine the Reverend Leon Gardiner scuttling in and out of shops with brown paper bags even out of his vestments. He was a man with a presence, a man who emanated power. Leon was a good name for him with his thick mane of tawny hair. She wondered again how old he was. His voice was strong yet soothing. Easy to listen to. And he seemed to be directing his sermon straight at her.